


Something Sweet

by violetnyte



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: And Introducing Fiona, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post War, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetnyte/pseuds/violetnyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Utterly pointless Praxis/Deimos domestic fluff in which Deimos is wearing a frilly apron and cooking Praxis breakfast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Sweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nothing_but_the_Rain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nothing_but_the_Rain/gifts), [coreaneggroll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coreaneggroll/gifts).



> Thanks to Coreaneggroll for inspiring the idea, dedicated to Nothing_but_the_Rain who needed something sweet.

Deimos is in the kitchen wearing an apron, some ridiculous thing my sister gave us as a housewarming present and I’d forgotten about, forgot it even existed until I see him wearing it. There’s white frills around the edging so he looks like a cake, decadent, just the front of the apron over his chest and the little straps over his little shoulders so I stop walking, stare, think it’s all too much until he turns around, and I realize the apron is all that he’s wearing.

He doesn’t see me. He’s frowning too intensely at a grubby recipe card. There’s a smudge of flour on his dusty cheek, and he accidentally smudges it wider when he absently puts the back of his hand over it, frowns at the flour mixture on his knuckles, and then licks it experimentally, delicate and neat like the cat.

The cat who, by virtue of winding herself through my ankles and mewling loudly, ruins the surprise, I suppose. Deimos looks over quickly to see me staring. “Aah.” I don’t quite hear him, I’m too far away, but I see his mouth part so I can imagine the little surprised sound he makes. It makes me shiver, in a good kind of way, remembering his soft little cries last night.

Fiona meows louder, demanding that I lavish her with attention. Deimos has likely chased her out of the kitchen so he can cook, so I pick her up, let her butt her head under my chin and purr. I walk toward the kitchen but keep on the other side of the bar, so Fiona won’t get in the way.

“Morning,” he says. Just his pretty little whisper, so soft and sweet.

“Good morning,” I reply. Fiona squirms, insistent, so I let her leap back down to the ground. She immediately hops on to the bar instead, trying to get at Deimos. I don’t mind he’s her favorite.

Deimos flicks the recipe card at her. “Aahn, no,” he says. And makes little tsking sound until she abandons the effort and scurries back to the floor. She meows a little, indigent, and Deimos talks back to her, says, “Just fed you.”

Fiona puts her tail up, undeterred by the scolding, and trots off into the house. Deimos turns away again, busying himself over the stove. I can hear the little pop and hiss of things cooking, smell bacon and eggs. I put my arms across the bar and lean over to see.

And he’s back, flicking the little recipe card at me, making the same small scolding noise. “Go sit,” he says.

I put my eyebrows up, lean back. Don’t say anything for a moment because I’m so flustered, a bit overwhelmed as always when he gets like this, so playful and open. “All right,” I tell him. “At the table?”

“Fine,” he calls. Not loud, he’s never loud, always quiet, but a bit above his soft little hush, wanting to be heard over the sounds of cooking.

I go around and sit at the table. It’s a good view, just Deimos in the apron bustling about, making breakfast for us. I usually cook, so this is a nice surprise just as he likely intended. I’m decent at it, I guess, from having practiced growing up. Nothing fancy, just the staple kinds of meals, things half from boxes and cans. Deimos likes to help, although he isn’t very good at it, makes me wonder what he ate growing up, if he’s ever had a proper kitchen like this.

Fiona’s back, tangling herself around my chair legs, demanding to know why Deimos isn’t out here petting at her, demanding to know why we kicked her out of the bedroom last night. She’s such a noisy thing, talkative in the way that Deimos isn’t, so it makes it strange when I catch him whispering back at her, lazy days where he’ll lay around on the floor with her in a patch of sunlight, rainy days where they curl in the armchair together.

I watch Deimos, admire the way the apron leaves his bottom and back exposed but for the looped together bow against the small of trim of his waist. By the time he starts setting plates and silverware on the table, I’m half-hard just from watching him. He catches my eye, catches me staring, and sort of smirks about it, playful in a way that means I can’t resist taking his hand, pulling him toward me.

He bends to me, lets me kiss him, smiling against my lips so it’s sweet. I slide my hand up his thigh, under the frilled hem of the apron, and find his cock. His hand curls into mine, he makes a soft gasp against my mouth, but then he pulls away, pushes at my shoulder just slightly.

“Tsk,” he says. He kisses my cheek before turning to go back into the kitchen.

I can’t resist patting a little swat across his butt, just enough to make him jump and laugh, nothing but air to the pretty sound of it, utterly breathless.

He hurries over to the stove, hurries around a lot more in that frantic, everything’s-ready-at-once kind of way. I hear him curse, just quietly, flapping his hands at something so that I have to grab Fiona, pretend she’s fascinating, desperately try not to let Deimos see me laughing at him.

I’ve gotten my face under control by the time he starts bringing over the food. It’s not funny anymore, because he’s turned sullen, sulky, setting down bacon that’s a bit charred, eggs he probably meant to make over-easy but have gone over-hard instead, and toast that’s barely salvable since it came out of the toaster. He turns away, goes back into the kitchen, and then comes back out with pancakes, lumpy, unevenly shaped, strangely pale with dark-gold seared splotches.

It’s a tense kind of moment, where Deimos stands there glaring at the meal, daring me to comment on it. The cat hops up into Deimos’ chair, so he nearly sits on her, so he pushes at her aside a bit rough. She jumps back to the floor and mews at him.

“Sorry,” he says. Looking down, hair in his eyes to hide, scratching the cat behind the ears so I’m not sure if he’s talking to her or me.

“Thanks for cooking,” I say. “This looks great.”

It makes him scowl at me, attack one of the pieces of bacon. The end crumbles into ash once he gets it on to his plate.

I don’t want to be the kind of jerk who gives insincere compliments, so I hastily transfer a few of the pancakes to the plate. They look the safest of the available options.

“Burnt them,” he says. Like he’s warning me about it.

“They don’t look—“ I cut into one, feel resistance and realize the entire underside is black. I carefully set my fork down and reach for the syrup, drowning as much as I dare over them. I take a bite and try desperately not to look like I’m bracing for it. They’re salvageable with the syrup, just a little strange aftertaste that even indicates they’re burnt across the bottom.

“It’s good,” I tell him. I eat a few more bites. “Really. Thanks for cooking, Deimos.”

He scowls harder and shoves back his chair, jerks to his feet. He reaches for my plate, but I stop him, catch his hand, kiss him quick. It startles him, I can feel a flash of resistance before his fingers curl, before his mouth opens. I plunge into him, kiss him deep, slide the lingering sweet from the syrup into his sweet little mouth with my tongue. He is so sweet, so utterly precious, and I pour all that into the kiss, telling him in the way he understands best how much he means to me, how much I don’t care that he’s burned breakfast a bit.

He looks a bit dazed when I stop. I pull him toward me, get him up next to my chair and between my knees. He’s still in that apron, fuck, I’d almost forgotten until I put my arms around his waist and feel the fluttering knot from the bow. I play at it, stroke the trailing bit of ribbon through my fingers.

“This is a nice surprise,” I tell him. Low and throaty, because of course I’m still hard for him.  

He flushes slightly, looking shy, looking irresistible. “Found it,” he says. “In a drawer.”

“Mmhm?” I run my hands around his waist, low, get a good handful of his bare ass. “Well, I like it.”

He sets his hands on my shoulders, plucking at me, teasing in a way that’s nearly ticklish. There’s still a faint smudge of flour on his cheek when he leans in to kiss me. He pushes me back in the chair and smiles, lowers his eyes in a way that’s part shy, part suggestive, so pretty and oh-so fucking sexy that I can’t stand it, I’m so glad he’s dropping to his knees. His hands take hold of the waistband on the cotton shorts and slide them low over my hips, slow about it, rubbing his whole body up against me with the gesture.

He frees my cock, glides his hand over the stiff line of my erection, fondles at my balls and then, oh, he urges me to scoot forward some and I do, very willingly, because he is so unbelievably good with his mouth. He doesn’t, though, he keeps a hand on me instead, looks up at me with burning intensity. I swallow, cock twitching eagerly which each teasing little touch he gives me.

“Deimos.” Ragged, already ragged from the anticipation, and the skirt of the apron is flounced around him in a circle as he kneels between my legs. “Baby, please. I want you to—“ Cuts off into a hissing kind of gasp when he puts his mouth over me, gives me that wet heat, swallows me all the way down like he can, because he is so good.

I hear him hum slightly, or maybe I can just feel it, working his mouth over me, getting his whole body into it like he does, like I love when he does, like I love him. It’s too much, him looking at me with bright eyes, burning bright, then closing his eyes and that’s worse, the content stretch and flex of his face.

I stand, quickly, surprising him so that he kind of slips off me with a wet noise. I take his hand, pull him to his feet, flurry kisses all over his mouth and neck. “Fuck, Deimos—“ Hard to talk with the way I’m all over him, the way I’m so hard for him. I kick my underwear the rest of the way free and then grab Deimos, sweep him into my arms.

“Aahn!” Fluttering at me with a kind of laugh, breathless and pretty about it. He loops his arms over my neck eagerly, folding against me so eagerly. He’s all smile as he asks, “What—?“

“Bed,” I tell him, insistent about it, already moving through the house. I hear Fiona pacing after us, meowing with curiosity.

And of course Deimos talks to her, twists down to look at her. She tries to grab at the dangling end of the apron ties. “No,” he tells her. Softly, scolding and firm about it. “Skit, skit!” He snaps his fingers at her, so the cat obeys and sits outside the bedroom door with her tail lashing back and forth. I can nudge the door closed with her on the other side, but she’s quiet about it so we can forget about her.

I set Deimos down on the bed and strip off my top, jerking it up over my head. I see him reach around to grab the apron strings and have to stop him, crawl over him and push him to the bed. “Don’t,” I say. “Leave it on.”

He smiles again, running his hands over my chest and shoulders. I explore over him as well, kissing and rubbing, feeling the soft fabric smooth over his bare hips and thighs. I roll away long enough to hunt the lube up out of the bedside drawer, and when I turn back around Deimos is there, hands and knees, rump raised up, that fucking apron bow peaking up right over the small of his back. He’s twisted around to smile at me and, yup, it’s hot, I could just about go right then and there.

He kind of wiggles his feet some, shivers the motion up into his thighs, shakes the bow and all those little frills. I crawl over to him, rub and squeeze at his bare ass, kiss the curve of it, and he pushes back at me, quivering with a silent, shaky little laugh that makes me hot and tight for him. I press my thumb into the rounded dip, spread him, lick just shy of his entrance, just over it, slicking him that way for a moment.

“Saahn.” Already talking, we’ve barely gotten started and he’s talking, so I don’t think I can last, don’t think we’ll be able to go slow at all. I put my tongue into him, make him squirm and breathe heavy, before kissing him, nuzzling at where the bow falls over his back.

I dribble the lube over my fingers and rub at where my mouth already slicked him, swirl sensation over the tight bud of him and then press, open him to me, so he gasps and talk again, says, “Maah!” Just whining the sound out, so sweet and breathless, so pretty when he talks.

I kiss his back again, run my hand between the apron and his chest. I push into him more, gliding at rhythm with my fingers where he’s the hottest, where it makes him push back against me.

“Mm—“ He arches his back up into me, wanton, eager and hot like I am. “More!” Gasps it, hands curling into the sheets.

I don’t need to be told twice. I slick my cock hastily and get lined up. He pushes back, sheathing himself, so hot, so unbelievably tight that I’m nearly worried for a moment, except his little voice lifts up into such a hot, pleasured sound. “Aaahhn!”

“Oh, _fuck_.” Barely that, strangled sounding, half-groaning because he feels so good, this is so good, I’m not even moving yet. That fucking bow flutters when we do start to move, when he lifts his hips back into me as I thrust forward. I’ve got my hands on him, feeling at those frills, pulling him into me so the angle’s right, so it’s hot and deep.

I get my hand up under the apron, find where his erection is brushing into the fabric. He practically purrs out encouragement, making some small, terrifyingly sexy sound between a hum and a moan. I close my hand over him, pump with the same rhythm as my thrusts. He arches back into me, gasping, just all these soft sounds and heat.

“God, Deimos, you are so—“ Breathless and ragged, getting close, been close ever since I saw him standing in the kitchen in that apron, all his pretty laughter and sweet smiles. I’m thinking about last night, staring at him over the candlelight, watching him lick rich chocolate mousse from his spoon, so involved in it, forgetting that I’m watching him until he catches me at it, smiles at me in a way that’s so shy and pretty, so sweet, all sweetness beneath his tough edges, so little and cute, so small and precious and _mine_.

“Fuck!” I go off first, eye nearly rolling back at how sudden it hits me, so fucking intense it is, white light and heat, hand tightening into his hip and pulling him into me. It’s everything, he’s everything, going wild for a moment to fill him, make him mine, push into him deep and, fuck, he is so good that I’m just breathless and boneless afterward.

I roll into him, a bit dizzy about it, still twitching and sensitive from orgasm, so it makes me kind of laugh, a bit unsteady. “Fuck, Deimos, that was – damn, baby, that was good.”

“Mmhm.” Just kind of hums it at me.

“You, ah—?“ I’m about to ask a stupid question, since I’ve got him hard in my hand, he’s still pushing back into me all eager and pretty with it, that little bow whisking through the air with the motion. “Sorry.” I knead my hand into his hip, into his ass. “Take it as a compliment.”

Makes him laugh, just all this breathless, delicate, pretty noise that’s hardly anything, just him, just how sweet and affectionate he is. “Fine,” he says. “Need to stop?”

“No, no.” I bend to him, kiss his shoulder, thrust a bit harder, thinking about him dressed in a dark red dress shirt last night, something he must have bought for the occasion, how it made him look dangerous and sexy, sweet with the little biting edge of his smile. Putting him into the taxi later, brilliantly tipsy on wine, just drunk enough for us both to be horny, not so drunk that we couldn’t paw at each other, make the cab driver nervous so we acted like we weren’t, we were just cuddling, how I had my hand down the back of Deimos’ pants, fingering him open right here in the car so by the time we got home—

“Nnhaa!” He pushes back at me, tight and eager, rocking against my steady thrusts. “Nnnn— yaa! _Yes_!”

I coax it from him, work my hand over him, feel him get tense and shivery before he comes, whines about it in a way that’s beautiful. That apron bow shivers right along with him, all the frills shaking, him shaking and shuddering and, oh it’s pretty, it’s just about the prettiest thing ever when he hitches little sounds that aren’t anything, talking to me about how good he feels, how good I’m making him feel.

We sort of fall into each other, get tangled around and plastered to the bed, content to not move for a while. “Oh, baby, I love you so much,” I tell him. Kiss at him, his ear and cheek, so he turns his face into me, seeking my lips with his, but I persist, kissing him in silly places like his nose and eyebrow so he scrunches up his face and laughs, no sound to it even, just a trembling outrush of air the sight of his smile.

“Mmm,” he says. Nuzzles at me, wraps his arms over me, still wearing that apron and oh-so-sweet, decadent like a cake. “Love you, too.”

After a while we shuffle around, shaky legged about it, Deimos clumsily tumbling off the edge of the bed and to the floor, kneeling there for a moment until I help him up. Makes him laugh again, so I can barely stand how warm I feel. We kiss, long and tender about it, curling our fingers into each other’s hair.

We separate. I put the bed somewhat back into order, sticking the lube back into the drawer. I accidentally knocked the photo of us on shore leave over during the fumbling, so I set it back upright.

“Taking the apron off now,” he says.

“Put it in the laundry.” I find my shirt on the floor and have to remember I bailed on my underwear in the other room. “Here, I’ll do it.” I step around behind him and work at the bow, pulling it free. He slips the apron straps from around his neck, and I toss both my shirt and the apron at the hamper.

I get into the closet, pull something out for each of us. We get dressed, kiss again, and go back out into the rest of the house. Deimos runs his fingers through his hair, settling the glossy curtain of his bangs back into place with an idle gesture.

Fiona’s up on the dining room table, gobbling our forgotten breakfast with gluttonous abandonment. We both just kind of wander to a halt at the sight. She looks up, ears twitching and tail lashing, trilling a long, vocalized meow at us before returning to her feast.

I put my arm around Deimos, pull him into me and kiss the top of his head. “Happy anniversary,” I tell him.

“Tch!” So I can’t tell if he’s talking to me or the cat, until he hugs me back and says, “You cook next time.”

 

\---------

Lady Artemis gifted me [fanart](http://artemisillustration.tumblr.com/image/49488272468) of this fic!

Nothing_but_the_Rain [recorded audio](https://soundcloud.com/kantgirl/something-sweet-by-violetnyte) for this fic!

Thank you, my lovelies!


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